Lash LaRue Comics

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fpHEV BURIED Quick-Shot Blake with the
K customary ceremony, which was not very
much ceremony at all. The parson said a few
words and they lowered the plain pine box and
that was all. No tears were shed. One spectator
at the funeral frowned. His handle was “Target
Twigs.”

One grave digger, a large muscular fellow
called Beefy Jones, stepped up to Target
Twigs and said, “Well, Target, I reckon it's a
relief to you that Quick-Shot is buried!”

Target looked at Beefy for a moment with¬
out saying anything. Then he lashed at Beefy
with his right fist. Beefy knew about fighting.
He moved his head ever so slightly and let the
right ride past. Beefy planted a left in Target’s
mid-section and when the man doubled up,
followed with a right to the jaw. Target

legged above him. Beefy had his fists ready,
but Target Twigs seemed too groggy.

In contempt, Beefy ti

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nan had laid Target’s gun on the desk
before himself. His grey, thoughtful eyes re.
garded Target as if to probe into the latter’!

" ’Twould have been kind’ of a dumb play tc
shoot Beefy in the back, right there in front oi
witnesses,” drawled the lawman. “ ’Twould
have been as good as putting your neck

“Mark, you seem to be the only one that
me taking my gun out of the leather. Did I

I was going to 1;
weapon right tl

all-fired n

o risk

fallen man’s hand moving toward his holster.
Target drew the six-gun slowly.

“No you don’t!” cried a commanding voice,
and Sheriff Mark Mantle leaped to jab his boot
down firmly on Target’s gun hand. The weapon

cry, Beefy turned. “Shooting a man in the back
is about your speed, Target!” he sneered.

Target’s face was sullen, his mouth set. He
made no reply. The Sheriff picked up Target’s
gun and ordered, “Get up. I’ll hold this till you
can cool off a mite.” Target rose slowly. The
little group around the grave dispersed at the
lawman’s suggestion. “Let’s all move along,
folks. It’s not fitten to quarrel around a grave- |

“Take a chair, Target,” said Sheriff Mark
Mantle. It was an invitation and an order at
the same time. Target Twigs sat in the curve¬
armed wooden chair opposite the sheriff’s desk.

The Sheriff pulled at his chin thoughtfully,
then said, “I reckon you felt he insulted you.”

, “Sure he did. Sure he did!” responded Tar¬
get. When he said he reckoned it was a rel ‘
to me to have Quick-Shot buried. That v
plumb insulting.”

Mark Mantle nodded. "It was. It was a dow
right insult. I reckon you claim you did not kill
Quick-Shot?”

“That’s exactly what I claim,” declared ’
get Twigs.

Target had gotten his nickname from long
hours of shooting practise. A year ago when he
had first blown into town from the east, he had
been a rank novice with a pistol. He had not
even owned one. The natives had assured him
that a man without a gun was practically ui
dressed. His new friends had warned him thi
unless he was able to defend himself, t
wouldn’t live long. So Target had bought a gu
and enough ammunition to supply a regiment.
Hour after hour he had practised. At first
literally had trouble hitting the side of a bam,
but eventually he got so he could flip a half

dollar in the air and zip a hole through it.

test which had been won for the past five years
by the much-feared-and-respected gunslinger,
Quick-Shot. Quick-Shot was good as usual. He
got 99 bulls-eyes out of 100. But Target Twigs
hit one hundred out of one hundred.

Infuriated, Quick-Shot issued a challenge.

He gave Target twenty four hours to get out of

morrow, we’ll just see who’s the better shot j
when a human heart is the target!” Quick-Shot
had growled. There was no doubting he meant

ized. That very night, sometime after mid¬
night, Quick-Shot was laid low in Main Street
with a slug through his back.

Nobody had been present at the time except
killer and victim. No witnesses. The sniper’s
identity was a dark and mystifying secret.

“It’s going to be a tough murder to solve, if
it ever is solved,” Sheriff Mark Mantle had
mused. “Quick-Shot had so many enemies you

against him. And the rest of the people think
the town’s better off without him. If anybody’s
got any clues, they’re keeping mum. Nobody
will help me.”

“Yes somebody will—I will!” declared Tar¬
get. “I’ve got to find the murderer or every¬
body will go along thinking it was me—and
I’ll be branded as a coward and a dry gulcher!” p

“I wish us both luck,” drawled the sheriff, '
“but the trail is real cold. Nobody saw any¬
thing. Why, nobody will even admit hearing
the shot—except a drummer who’s staying at
the Longhorn Hotel. And he must be loco—
claims he heard two shots!”

“Two shots!” exclaimed Target, excitedly.
“Mark! Maybe he’s not loco! Maybe there were
two shots! How many slugs were in the body?”

“Only .one. What are you driving at?”

“Listen!” yelled Target, bouncing out of his
! chair. “If there were two shots, that means the
first one missed. And that let’s me out. You
know me, sheriff. I wouldn’t miss! Let’s go

look ror that other slug!”

The lawman accompanied Target to the
scene of the crime. Quick-Shot had been
sauntering past the livery stable when he was
murdered. Target eagerly examined the
Wooden outside wall of the stable. About two
feet up from the sidewalk he found what he
was seeking; a bullet hole in the wood. With
his knife he extracted the flattened lead and
held i^ for the lawman to examine. “This sure
proves there were two shots,” agreed the law¬
man, “but where does it get us? That slug is so
mashed up we couldn’t even tell whose gun it
came out of!”

"You're right, but the killer doesn’t know
I that. And I’ve got a hunch. Will you let me
play out my hand, Mark? You don’t even have
to enter the picture unless I hit the jackpot.”

Target found Beefy alone in his room. The
latter snatched up a gun and held it on Target,
the latter raising his hands. “I don’t want to
take any chances of you killing me like you
killed Quick-Shot,” sneered Beefy.

“You killed Quick-Shot,” retorted Target
Twigs. “I suspected you when you started try-

the only hombre around here with such a bad
aim you’d have to have two shots to bring down
a man, shooting from a rooftop across the

“You can’t prove it,” snarled Beefy. ' '
“But I can! I’ve got the bullet that missed;
And it came out of your gun!”

LL right, wise guy. I did do it. I killed
him. But you’ll never prove anything
because you’ll be dead too!” Beefy’s gun
blazed. The door kicked open and Sheriff Mark
Mantle blasted the gun from Beefy’s hand with
one shot. “I heard the confession! It’s jail for
| you, Beefy. Are you okay. Target?" *j

“Sure,” said Target, scrambling up from the
floor. “I never was in any real danger. Beefy’s
the worst shot in the west.”

THE END

LASri LaRUE western

FEN SENT . ‘

M FAIRYLAND
MAGIC LAMP

\ash LaRUE, the Roving Marshal, wouldn’t thinK it was a joKe if he could see what
appened to the others who received similar notes 1 The magic lamp is nothing more
ian a lamp of revenge and life is held cheaply in the fiendish mind of the avenger J

QUICKLY''

BAStLY'-.